


The Lion and the Unicorn

by TaraSoleil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraSoleil/pseuds/TaraSoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I. Need. Some. Help." He said each word with painfully correct diction and an excruciatingly slow pace. </p><p>"I'm sorry, but I think you're manners are beyond even my help, Malfoy," she grit and pointed to the door again. He shook his head stubbornly and stayed determinately on the bed.</p><p> "I've nowhere to go," he admitted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion and the Unicorn

The young man shivered as the rain washed over him. It was early July and the warmest day of the summer so far. He was dressed in heavy dark robes that had been woven with charms to repel moisture, but still he shivered. His eyes took in the house on the hill, enormous and abandoned. He knew that it was wrong. That was his home; he knew there were dozens of people living in it and at least three House Elves serving them. He should see lights in the windows, but he saw only darkness. His path was blocked by a ward and he had to stay back.

He felt the weight of the coins in his pocket and was sure he had enough to keep him fed for a few days, but it worried him that this had happened at all. Barred from his own house, seeing it as a Muggle would, he turned and ran down the hill to the street below.

Wand in hand, he threw his arm out and signaled for the Knight Bus. Its arrival did nothing to comfort him, as he had to squint to be able to really see it. “Why you lookin’ at me like that?” the conductor asked.

“Lost my glasses,” the boy responded and climbed onto the bus before this vicious magic kept him from being able to see it at all.

“Where to?”

He stopped and considered his options. Ideally, he would go to his friend’s home and seek guidance and assistance, but he knew that the anti-Muggle barriers were even stronger at that home than at his own. If he wasn’t able to approach the one, he certainly wouldn’t be able to approach the other. He needed someone open-minded and clever, someone willing to help him and someone he could actually reach. He groaned with the realization of where it all brought him. “Banbury Road, Oxford.”

The conductor cleared his throat and held out his hand. Payment. He paid his fare and gripped the railing like a lifeline. He could barely see the bus even as he stood on it. Sickness filled him.

“Banbury Road, Oxford,” the conductor announced. “Off you get.”

The young man stumbled off the bus and onto the sidewalk, bumping into a bored-looking Muggle leaning on a lamp post. “Oi! Watch it!”

He sneered and started down the road, not certain which direction he needed to go, but eager to get there as quickly as possible.

“I’m talking to you, fairy,” the Muggle called. “You made me drop my fag. Apologize.”

“I don’t apologize to Muggles,” he retorted.

“Wha’d you call me?”

He turned and his sneer fell as the knuckles collided with his face. It wasn’t the first time he had been hit, but it was the first time he had been hit in the face. And it hurt. The Muggle kept at it until he fell and then started kicking at him. “Bloody fairy,” the Muggle spat and strolled away.

Humiliation motivated him to move, to pull himself up and all but ran down the pavement, past the crowds of Asian tourists and away from city centre. He wasn’t sure if he was going the right way, but he was glad when the number of people dwindled. His clothes were odd and now his bloody and bruised face drew attention as well. Then he saw it, the house he wanted. It was old and large and half hidden behind a wall overgrown with ivy and flowing vines. Number 106.

He stumbled up the gravel drive and knocked on the door with all the strength he had left. A woman opened the door, smiling until she saw his face.

“Granger,” he said and fell into the shrub growing beside the steps.

 

oOo

He was surprised that the gravel wasn’t poking into him and that the ground felt so soft. Equally as surprising was the way the sun hit his face and made him feel numb. Blinking, he looked up at the sky and didn’t understand how it was so white. Clouds meant no sun, but there was light aplenty. He blinked again and sat up, the clouds and cold fell away from his eyes. An oddly squishy mass wrapped in a white cloth fell into his lap and chilled everything it touched. He tossed it aside and stood on unsteady legs.

He was inside.

The house was nothing like his own. His house spoke of dignity and age. The floor was polished marble and the walls were thick stones. Vaulted ceilings rose from carved pillars and hung with Goblin-made chandeliers. This house, while large, was light. The windows were enormous, floors carpeted, walls painted a simple off white. Everything his house wasn’t, this house was.

The door flew open and a man hurried in, a bag on his arm and a gleam in his eye.

“Phillip, dear,” a voice called from some distant room. “Is that you?”

“Yes, and I brought dinner!” he announced cheerfully.

“Shall I call the Times and inform them that the world is ending?” the woman replied.

“Not just yet,” he chuckled. “You still have to heat it.” The man grinned and wandered in from the foyer toward the kitchen at the back of the house. He stopped in his tracks. “Hello, who would you be, then?”

“One of Hermione’s school friends,” Martha answered for him. “Poor boy fell over in the hedges. Are you feeling better?”

“Not really,” was the best the confused young man could manage.

The door opened again, a girl of not-quite seventeen hurried in, dropping her bag onto the table just inside the door with a blissful sigh as the weight left her shoulder. She moved to enter the hall, but found her path blocked. “Dad!”

“None shall enter this house without first solving the problem of the evening,” the man said in a loud and impressive voice. He pointed to the white board hanging just inside the door. Most of the year it held appointment reminders, phone messages and notes from wife to husband or vice-versa, but in the summer it housed the ‘Problems of the Morning and Evening’ and the young woman was denied exit from or entry to the house without first solving the problem correctly.

She huffed, took up the marker and quickly solved the maths problem. “Happy?”

He studied it and nodded. “I am now. How was class?”

“Busy,” she said and threw her bag into his arms as proof. “I’ve never learned so much in a single day. It makes Hogwarts look like pre-school.” She laughed and walked past her father and the bruised boy. “Malfoy,” she greeted absently as she went. She was halfway up the first flight of stairs before she finally seemed to understand what she had seen and said. “Malfoy?”

“Your friend from cram school, right?” Phillip said.

“Her other school, dear,” his wife said kindly. “I rather thought the clothes gave him away.”

Hermione Granger stomped back into the hallway and glared at Draco. She studied his face and tried very hard not to smirk. “Who stomped all over your face?”

“A Muggle,” he replied.

“Good,” she said and turned so abruptly that her hair slapped him in the face.

“Granger!” he called after her, chasing her up the stairs and into her room before she had the chance to slam the door in his face. He stumbled to a stop on the area rug and took in the walls and unmoving posters and the books, so many books. “It’s so pink.”

“Shut it, Malfoy! And get out!” she pointed to the door.

“No,” he smirked and dropped onto her bed, laying back and crossing his legs as if he were the most comfortable man in the world.

She threw the nearest non-breakable thing at him, but he caught it easily. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and she wondered if unlawful entry was good enough reason to break the ban on under-aged magic. The boy read her intent and sat up quickly. “I need some help.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf?”

She blinked. “No, but I think I might be hearing things.”

“I. Need. Some. Help.” He said each word with painfully correct diction and an excruciatingly slow pace.

“I’m sorry, but I think you’re manners are beyond even my help, Malfoy,” she grit and pointed to the door again.

He shook his head stubbornly and stayed determinately on the bed. “I’ve nowhere to go,” he admitted.

“Try going home,” she said with a laugh. “Unless your parents are as sick of you as I am.”

He glared at her, his grey eyes piercing through her sarcasm and forcing her to bite her lip. “I can’t.” He pulled his wand from the inner pocket of his robe. Giving it a swish and flick that she knew ought to have her floating up to the ceiling, he said “Wingardium Leviosa.” Nothing happened. “I’ve lost my magic.”

“You’re a squib?” she stepped forward and grabbed the wand, examining it for defect but finding it intact. Her eyes turned to the boy himself, studying the damaged face, messy hair and worried eyes. She prodded his arm, chest and ribs until he winced and pushed her away. “How is that even possible?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here,” he said. “Believe me, the last thing I want is to give you more to crow about.”

She stood back, crossed her arms and leveled a satisfied smirk at him. “I think it’s a punishment you’ve earned after all the insults you’ve hurled at me and my kind. Even if I could find a way to put you right… I don’t think I will.” She turned and left him to choke on his insults.

He ran into the hall after her and fell into the tall man in his colorful jumper. “Ah, Malfoy was it? The wife’s sent me up to see if you’ll be staying for dinner.”

Draco looked over the man’s shoulder and saw the horrified look covering Granger’s face. He smiled, “If it’s not too much trouble, Mr Granger.” The man nodded and returned to the ground floor. “What’s that look for, Granger?”

“You! Insufferable! Self-important! House-crashing! Ferret-faced git!” she glared ineffectively at him.

“I’m staying until you help me,” he smiled and practically skipped down the steps, pulling off the traveling robe and hanging it in the foyer where he presumed such things belonged. He found the room where he had woken up, a sitting room by the look of it, as that’s what Mr Granger was doing in it. The man turned the page of his evening newspaper and hummed disapprovingly in a way that Draco found familiar, his own father made the same noise as he read the Daily Prophet over breakfast.

“Malfoy…” the man said quietly and put his paper down. “As in Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes, sir,” Draco said politely.

“My ‘Mione doesn’t have much nice to say about you, I’m afraid,” the man said and pick the paper up again, humming approvingly at a different article. “Aren’t you one of those pure-bloods?” he asked as he dropped the paper down again.

“I am.”

“Hmm,” Phillip commented and lifted the paper up again only to drop it half a second later. “Your kind don’t think too highly of my sort, do they?”

It wasn’t an accusation, Draco realized. The man wasn’t berating him, just inquiring. “No, many don’t.”

“Hmm, wonder why that is exactly… I can’t do magic, that’s true, but can you repair the carburetor on any car manufactured since 1965?”

“Maybe if I knew what a carburetor was,” the boy offered making the man laugh.

“Perhaps I can show you after dinner,” he said and picked his paper up to hum at the contents until his wife called them to supper.

Draco was used to silence. His father had little to say to him most of the time and his mother spoke only to complain. He found this a perfectly comfortable silence, knowing Granger’s father wasn’t itching to tear his limbs from his body for insulting his daughter at every opportunity. His eyes examined the room, large but hardly comparing in size the any of the sitting rooms of his own house. The smallest sitting room was palatial, even his bedroom was larger and grander than this. The fireplace was surrounded by a mantle that couldn’t have been more than one hundred years old. It was lined with framed photographs, only one of which actually moved.

“Dinner!” Mrs Granger called from the kitchen. Phillip took a moment to fold his paper and set it beside the chair.

“Go collect ‘Mione for me,” he said and walked off. Draco was slightly annoyed. Guests were never asked to run such menial errands in his home. That’s what House Elves were for. He sniffed his disapproval and walked up the stairs, opening the door without knocking.

“Do you mind?” the girl said and threw a book at him. “What if I was changing in here?”

“Like it would matter to me, Granger,” he sneered. “Food’s ready.” He stopped a moment. “What sort of food do Muggles eat?”

“The same kind wizards do, idiot,” she replied. “Only we make it ourselves instead of relying on slave labor.”

“Not from what I’ve read,” he replied in a smug tone.

She blushed and huffed, “That… was a long time ago. We learned our lesson.”

He just smirked and strolled down the stairs, following the smell of food until his path was blocked by Phillip in his colorful jumper. “None shall enter this kitchen without first solving the Problem of the Evening!”

“Dad, I already solved the Problem of the Evening,” she grumbled.

“My house, my rules, missy,” he smiled. “And there will now be TWO Problems of the Evening!” He grinned. “Young Mister Malfoy goes first.”

“What?” Draco practically shrieked.

“Go on, Malfoy. You were so smug a minute ago,” Hermione pushed him forward.

The white board was thrust into his hands and he examined the hand-drawn diagram. A picture of a triangle with numbers written on two sides and an X on the third, followed by the words ‘Find X.’ Phillip handed him the marker and Draco looked at him as if he had lost his mind. He wrote on the board and handed it back.

The man studied it a moment and burst out laughing. “Well played, sir. You may enter the kitchen.” He handed the board to Hermione, who saw that Malfoy had only circled the X on the triangle and written ‘Here it is’ beside it.

“What?” she gaped. “If I tried that, you’d have me doing an hour of extra homework for being cheeky.”

Phillip shrugged. “He’s a guest. Guests are allowed their cheek.”

Draco grinned as Hermione set to work finding the proper answer. “Very good,” her father declared. “You may enter the kitchen!”

“Thank you, kind sir,” she curtseyed and sat at the table. “What’s for dinner?”

“My world famous lasagna,” Phillip smiled.

“Courtesy of Marks and Spencer,” his wife added with a cheeky grin. Hermione snorted. Draco was lost. “Sit, Draco.” She put a plate in front of him.

“So tell me, Draco,” Phillip said after a moment. “Do they teach you maths?”

It took him a moment to understand the question. Maths. Mathematics. “Not in school, no. Anything we need to learn about that is learned at home.”

“Strange,” he commented. “I would think it would be vital to you. I mean, if I were a wizard and I wanted to make a chair out of nothing but magic, I would need to know exactly how big to make it – it’s height and width and area and volume and all that. How can you make a proper chair without knowing the maths of the thing?”

Draco had no idea how to respond. So far as he knew, the specifics were simply there in his head and came out of his wand. It just happened, no mathematical equations required.

“And what of money?” the man continued. “Being as old as it is, I’m sure you’re family has hoards of coins. Don’t tell me you just trust the bank to do the right thing with it!”

“The Goblins are beyond reproach where money is involved,” Draco insisted. “But my father does keep his own ledgers for emergencies.”

“For when the Ministry comes inquiring, you mean?” Hermione asked pointedly. Draco just glared at her.

“No arguing at the table,” Martha insisted. “More salad, Draco?”

“Yes, thank you,” he offered the woman a polite smile before turning a smirk to her daughter. Bad manners, indeed.

“And what of science,” Phillip asked. “You’re telling me that you learn to turn snuff boxes into mice and pinecones into porcupines without ever learning anatomy? How can you make a proper animal without knowing where the scapula belongs?” He waved his fork meaningfully in Draco’s direction. “Imagine what would happen in the surgery if I went in not knowing where a molar belongs. Chaos, son, pure and simple.”

“Naturally,” Draco said.

“That’s why ‘Mione’s at school even in summer,” he informed the boy. “I will not have her conjuring porcupines with snouts growing from their backsides.”

“Dad!”

“Fine, I’ll stop talking.”

Draco was amused and slightly jealous, though he would never admit the latter to anyone. He, as a Malfoy, had been raised with the idea that he was superior to everyone, even to other pure-blood witches and wizards. It was the surname with the dignity, not the boy. The boy, he learned early on, was inferior in every way, a disappointment regardless of his accomplishments. His father bribed the team to make him Seeker, and even when he won the game, his father congratulated himself for making it possible. He was third in their class, but Lucius had never so much as patted his son on the back for it. Success was a given, anything less was punished. Yet the Muggles taught and teased and quizzed to ensure their child was learning and successful.

The Grangers truly were everything Draco and his parents were not.

As the plates were lifted away by Martha, Mr Granger spoke again. “So, where will you be staying tonight Draco?”

“Ah,” Draco said rather stupidly. “I hadn’t thought of that yet.”

“We don’t have an owl, I’m afraid,” Mrs Granger said. “And we aren’t connected to that Floo Network.”

“I can call Harry and have him send Hedwig,” Hermione offered, eager to get Malfoy out of her house.

“Won’t do any good,” the boy said darkly. “I’m a squib now. I tried to go home and was blocked by the wards.” He slumped in his seat, looking like a wounded puppy.

“Oh,” Martha fretted. “Hermione, call Harry and we can send an owl off to the Headmaster for help. We can send a letter to your parents to explain, too.”

“NO!” Draco shouted and leapt up, sending the chair back into the refrigerator with a hard slap. “They can’t know!”

The woman came and wrapped him in a soothing hug, which he tried very hard not to enjoy. “Why ever not? They’ll be worried about you.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Martha sent her daughter to call her friend while she readied coffee and dessert. Hermione walked to the hall and dialed the number she rarely called but knew by heart. Draco waited to hear the gushing words of friendship and slid down in his chair in mortification for the girl.

“This is Miss Granger at the Westgate Library,” Hermione’s voice came crisp and angry from the hallway. “I need to speak to a Mister… H Potter, please. Yes, I’ll wait.” Draco didn’t understand the tone or the pause as if she didn’t know her own friend’s name. Any why pretend to be a librarian? He glanced between the girl’s parents, who shrugged as if it were just a sad fact.

“Harry!” Hermione said in her own voice. “Pretend I’m yelling at you for not returning a book to the library. Can you send Hedwig to my house? I need to send a letter to Dumbledore. … Thanks, Harry! I’ll send you a letter later. Hang in there, okay? It’s only a couple more weeks and you’ll be out of there. …Yeah, bye.”

She ignored Draco’s odd look as she sat back down at the table. “He’s sending her now.”

“Pie?” Martha offered. The boy nodded numbly as he stared with confusion and worry at the girl opposite. He had only ever read about telly-phones, but he knew it wasn’t normal to pretend to be someone else when using them. It was as bad as forging a letter via owl. It simply wasn’t done. Yet Hermione just did it.

“So,” Phillip breathed in deeply. Draco couldn’t imagine what he would start on about now. “Draco… that means dragon doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” he said and looked at the Muggle as if he’d sprouted a second head. Where did the man keep all these arbitrary facts?

“That must mean you’ve got a bit of dragon in your wand then,” he smiled. “Strange idea, dragons being real, but ‘Mione tells me that little boyfriend of hers brother works with them.”

Hermione groaned, “Dad, Ron isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Good thing, too. He's a _ginger_ ,” he commented conspiratorially, making Draco snort.

“Phillip!” his wife glared and threatened him with a knife still coated in pie filling.

“Sorry, dear,” he replied quickly and turned back to his original question. “So, what’s in your wand, then?”

“Unicorn hair,” Draco said, not really understanding what difference it would make to a Muggle.

Phillip stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Unicorn hair, you say? I read in one of ‘Mione’s schoolbooks that unicorns are creatures of pure goodness and innocence. Isn’t that so?” Draco nodded. “And wands pick their owners, right?” Again, Draco nodded. “I think it must say something about you that a wand powered by such goodness chose you, don’t you think?”

Hermione snorted.

“Unlike my daughter over there with her dragon heartstring wand. Dangerous creatures, dragons,” Phillip said in a tone that reminded both Hermione and Draco of their Hogwarts professors. “What do you think it says about her that such a dark and dangerous beast powers her wand?”

“Dragons and Unicorns,” Martha sighed. “What I wouldn’t have given to know about such things when I was a girl. Wouldn’t be a dentist, that’s for sure!” She said and put the plates of pie and cups of coffee before everyone. “You don’t realize how lucky you are, Draco. You’ve lived your whole life with it.”

“Take it for granted, I’m sure,” Phillip winked. “That’s why you pure-bloods are so against us. You’ve never had to be without.”

‘Until now,’ Draco thought bitterly and noticed his look mirrored in Hermione’s face. They ate their dessert in silence after that, Mr Granger letting his words sink into the boy’s head without interruption.

“That was very good,” Draco said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Thank Marks and Spencer, you mean,” Hermione giggled.

“Oh, my,” Phillip shook his head. “Do you hear how my daughter disrespects me? And in front of company, no less.”

The girl snorted. “He’s not company. He’s Malfoy.”

But Phillip sighed and looked pained. “Draco, how would your father deal with such insolence?”

“My father was always fond of a good beating,” he said seriously, but the smile made them think he was playing. He wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that. The last thing he needed was Muggle pity on top of Muggle hospitality.

“No,” Mr Granger said and shook his head. “I think an evening of dishpan hands will sort her out just fine.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open and she looked at the sink full of dishes, the lasagna pan crusted with over-hardened tomato sauce. “That will take hours!”

“Magic has made you lazy, my dear,” Philip chuckled and patted the girl on the head as he left the room. “Draco, come sit with me. I’m interested to hear more about what you do at school. Do you play that Quidditch game like ‘Mione’s friend?” His voice trailed off as the disappeared into the sitting room, leaving Hermione alone in the kitchen to sort out the mess.

As she huffed and scrubbed at the dishes, filling the drainer to capacity twice before she even got to touch the horrid lasagna pan, a soft hoot came to the kitchen window. Drying her wrinkled fingers, she opened the window and let Hedwig fly in and perch atop a kitchen chair.

“Hedwig’s here!” she called and giggled at the spectacle of Draco Malfoy rushing into the room to stare with unhidden hope at the white bird of his most hated schoolmate. “There’s parchment on my desk,” she told him and watched him run from the room in a highly undignified manner. She gave the owl a plate of buttered toast and went back to the dishes.

Draco hurried back to the kitchen and sat down opposite the bird, looking up at her every few seconds to make sure she was still there. He wrote a long explanation to the Headmaster, begging for help and asking to be allowed back to Hogwarts. He rolled it up and tied it to the bird’s leg. “Take this to Professor Dumbledore. No one else.” She gave him a very dirty look, but hooted and flew off.

“You didn’t write your parents?” Hermione asked.

“No,” he said. “I embarrass them enough as it is.” She nodded but didn’t say anything to contradict him, which he found oddly comforting.

“Done!” she announced happily and put the last dish onto the drainer. Brushing past the desolate boy, she marched into the sitting room and dropped onto the sofa beside her mother, who was reading a book. Her father was back to humming over the newspaper. Draco hovered in the doorway, not sure if he was expected to join them or not. Without a word, Phillip lifted the discarded Politics section for the boy.

Draco fought a smile as she took it and sat in the chair beside Mr Granger’s, and started to read about the events happening in the Muggle world. The evening was spent in a comfortable silence completely different from the often bitter quiet of his own house. Draco found himself humming with disapproval over something called the Eurozone and the move to expand it. He kept at it until the paper was folded and set aside, when Phillip offered him the Sports section.

“No more news,” Martha yawned. “It’s nearly eleven and you’re meeting Roger for the football game tomorrow.” She reminded her husband. “Draco, I’ll show you to the guest room.”

“He’s staying here?” Hermione whined.

“Where else can he go?” her mother asked. He smirked when the dark look crossed the girl’s face and he knew she was silently suggesting he go to hell. “Come along.”

Draco followed, up the stairs into the door beside Hermione’s. It was a no nonsense room with simple furniture and a bed with iron railings painted white. It reminded him of the hospital wing at school, and he pretended that’s where he was as he dressed in borrowed pyjamas and lay down for the night. Imagining himself in Hogwarts, he drifted off to dreams of the Headmaster fixing his magic.

He was woken abruptly and unceremoniously with a pillow to the face. “Wake up, Malfoy!”

“What do you want?” he grumbled.

“For you to go away,” Hermione said hopefully. “Failing that, for you to get up so I can have breakfast. No one eats until everyone is at the table, which unfortunately includes you. So get up!”

Food. That didn’t sound so bad. He remembered dinner was good and the pie was good and the coffee was good. Muggle food was really quite… good, his tired brain decided. He rolled off the bed and did his best to stand.

“Oh, I wish I had a camera,” Hermione giggled. “That is priceless.” Draco knew full well what he looked like in the mornings. His hair never stood up in the same way twice and he always had an intricate maze of creases imprinted into his face from where he slept on his pillow. The bruises probably didn’t add anything to his appearance.

“Shut up, Granger,” he said with nothing close to his usual venom. “Washroom.”

“Across the hall. Don’t take too long. I’m starving.”

“That sounds like a personal problem,” he smiled and shuffled past her.

“Git.”

“I picked it up from you.”

She snorted and ran down the stairs to wait for him in the kitchen. It took him ten minutes, but he managed to open his eyes and smooth his hair. The swelling had gone down overnight, so he looked something close to normal, though rather more purple around the jaw and left eye. He changed back into his own clothes and found his way down to the kitchen.

Phillip was dressed for football, wearing a tee-shirt and shorts, his wife was ready for a Sunday in the back garden fixing her flower beds and Hermione was still dressed in her pyjamas. Draco smirked at the pink flannel pjs with cupcakes all over them. Compared to them, he looked as majestic as a Vicar.

“So, care to come learn some Muggle sports this morning?” Phillip grinned.

“Don’t,” Mrs Granger warned him. “He just wants to put you on Roger’s team so that he’ll lose because of your inexperience.”

“Dammit, woman!” Phillip gave his wife a mock scowl.

“Pancakes,” she said and dropped the plate in front of him.

“Oh, well, I forgive you.”

Hermione shook her head and dug into her breakfast. The strange guest did the same, enjoying breakfast as much as he had dinner. He kept waiting for Mr Granger to start questioning him as he had the previous night, but the man was too busy filling his face. He tore through four pancakes and half a pot of tea before he kissed his wife on the cheek, patted his daughter on the head and Draco on the back and ran for the door.

“He looks forward to these games every Sunday. He’s been in competition with Roger since university,” Martha explained. “He’s leaving soon for Australia. I think this might be the last game they’ll play.”  
Draco nodded his understanding and continued to eat silently.

Hermione left, then returned thirty minutes later dressed, brushed and carrying a bag filled with books. She took a bag from the counter and left through the front door. “Cram school,” Martha said and finished the dishes before she left for the garden. Draco was left alone. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He paced the kitchen, the hall, the sitting room. He climbed the stairs, then went back down again. He sat in a chair and read some of the morning paper, but started checking the clock every few minutes.

How long did it take an owl to fly from Oxford to Hogwarts? The train ride took them almost half a day, but the owl had been sent twelve hours ago. Surely, it had reached the Headmaster by now.  
He started pacing again, stopping at the window at every pass to check for approaching owls.

Martha came in from the garden to fix lunch, which Draco ate without tasting. He was too nervous. As soon as the woman left him, he was wearing a hole into the Granger’s carpets again. Phillip returned, then Hermione. There were Problems of the Evening and discussions of the maths she had learned in school that day, but no owls. Draco started to feel sick.

As dinner was being assembled there was a light knock at the door. Phillip rose to answer and Draco could hear the man’s happiness. It had to be that Roger person, Draco thought.

“Draco!” Phillip came into the doorway. “Someone for you.” He stepped aside and the impossible Headmaster came into view. His pale blue robes with matching hat were a welcome reminder of home to the boy.

“Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore smiled. “I received a curious letter just a few minutes ago.”

“We were just about to sit down to dinner,” Martha said, slightly nervous in the man’s presence. “Would you care to join us?”

“Nothing would please me more,” the old man smiled and followed her into the kitchen. An extra place was set for him and he settled down beside Hermione to observe Draco as they ate. “You cannot return home, Mr Malfoy?”

“No, Professor,” he shook his head. “I saw the house as a Muggle would and felt the fear from the wards. If I tried to get close, it would have made me ill or mad.”

“I see,” Dumbledore nodded. “Most curious.”

They ate in silence. Not even the good-natured Phillip Granger could bring himself to speak around the powerful old wizard. Hermione glanced at Draco occasionally, trying to see what the Headmaster might see, but she didn’t see anything different than the previous night.

It took until dessert for Dumbledore to break the silence. “I will permit you to return to Hogwarts to study loss of magic in the library. If your magic should return, you will begin attending classes again.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Draco said, relief evident in his voice. “Does my father have to know?”

The old man considered the question. “You are not yet of age, so I’m afraid he will have to be informed. However, I will leave such correspondence up to your discretion and timing.” His eyes twinkled and Draco nodded his understanding. He could take as long as he wanted to tell his father. “In the mean time, I think a room at The Leaky Cauldron will serve to keep you comfortable… unless your presence is welcome elsewhere.” He looked at Phillip and Martha.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, Draco,” Martha offered.

“What?” Hermione said, her mouth hanging open.

“’Mione’s leaving us in July for that ginger of hers,” Phillip said. “We’ll have the room.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, dumbfounded.

“Excellent. That is settled then,” Dumbledore smiled. “And now on to more pressing matters: Is that pudding I see?” They were equally silent over dessert, Hermione glaring at her parents for allowing Malfoy to stay longer than was absolutely necessary. Draco was just silent, even as the Headmaster left he could say nothing but ‘thank you’.

“I hope you appreciate what is being offered to you, Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore said in a quiet voice, “and find a way to show your gratitude.” He turned on the gravel driveway and disappeared without a sound.

Draco nodded his understanding and readied his resolve. He walked into the house, straight to the living room. “Your friend is leaving for Australia.”

“Yes, Roger. He’s starting a new surgery,” Phillip said sadly. “Offered to take me in as a partner, but I can’t leave.”

“You should,” Draco said. “Both of you should go. Before August.”

Hermione stared at him. “How did you know my address?” He looked at her and she understood. “The Death Eaters know where I live. They’re going to attack.” She jumped up and ran from the room. They could hear her feet on the stairs and on the floor above them. The heavy clunk chased her feet back down to the ground floor and Hermione dragged a suitcase into the room. She hurriedly grabbed the photos off the mantle, the commemorative plate from a shelf and her father’s favorite books, throwing everything into the suitcase and muttering to herself.

“Gotta hurry. They’re coming. Have to save everything. Must get away. They’ll never find them in Australia,” she stopped and spun around to glare at the boy again. “Why would you say that?”

He backed away from her approach.

“Why would you try to save them? You hate Muggles! You call me Mudblood all the time,” she pointed an accusing finger at him. “This is a trick. You haven’t really lost your magic. You’re sending them to Australia where I won’t be able to help them! This is all part of their plan!”

“Granger!” Draco shouted and matched her glare with equal intensity. “Unlike some people, I know how to show appreciation when I’ve been given a kindness. Let it never be said that a Malfoy has no manners.”

“That’s fine by me,” Phillip said and guided his daughter back to the sofa. “I think I’ll give Roger a ring, let him know I’m interested in Australia, after all.”

Hermione kept glaring at him even as her father left the room. “Don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it, Granger,” Draco smirked and dropped into his usual chair, gathering the newspaper into his hands. “You just have to say thank you.”

“Don’t like it.”

He grinned and vanished behind the Politics section, humming contentedly as he heard Phillip talking on the telly-phone in the hall. He had shown his gratitude and now Granger owed him. He would find a way to fix his magic and all would be right in his world again.

_Malfoy 1 – Granger 0._


End file.
